Hackers Gonna Hack
by Rerin
Summary: James Bond was sex. And sex was not going to get the better of John Watson.
1. Chapter 1: The Woman Returns

Chapter 1: The Woman Returns

Irene Adler narrowed her eyes. This man was different from all the other government spies who'd wriggled into her bed. Something about the way his hands hung so casually, so _comfortably_, from the leather cuffs tying his wrists to the bedposts made the hair stand up on the back of her neck.

"Well, Mr. Bond," she purred, tearing her gaze away from his smirk. "Evidently, this sort of thing is far from a novelty for you."

"I'm sure you'll keep it interesting."

She quirked an eyebrow. It could have been sarcasm, or condescension, but the way he offered it made it sound like a genuine compliment. She'd positioned an array of her favorite devices on the dresser, in full view of her client, of course, and with sinister grace she picked up the cat o'nine tails, keen to gauge his reaction.

"Amusement," she read aloud from his expression.

"Anticipation," Mr. Bond corrected.

"Eager to feel it, are you?" Gently, she draped the thin leather tails of the cat across his torso, and swept them down across his skin, light and slow. Like that, the strips of leather were so silky smooth they almost felt wet.

"Yes ma'am," he muttered, and the way he said it made her realize she would have to work extra hard to ensure that her client would enjoy their session more than she did.

* * *

She played with him; he was extremely cooperative. At last she was forced to concede that his air of superiority was impenetrable. It wasn't a lack of reaction—he reacted beautifully; made plenty of delicious growly noises, _nhm_s and _mmn_s. But her other clients were so much more…submissive.

What bothered her most was the way he breathed, almost exclusively through his nose, no matter what she did to him. Lips kept shut as if daring her to pry them open. "Open your mouth," she reminded him, and he would obey. But a minute later she'd look back and his mouth would be closed again. Usually people in the throes of her tradecraft forgot themselves, panting and gasping. Not so with Mr. Bond.

"What's wrong?" he smirked at last, the instant her disappointment manifested itself in her expression.

"I'm just beginning to wonder why you're here," Irene replied.

Bond blinked at her. "I'd heard so much about you. You are quite infamous in the secret service."

"Not as infamous as you," Irene mused, unimpressed. "Felt your notch belonged on my bedpost, did you?"

"A dominatrix peddling government secrets. Sounds the sort of thing that would be right up my alley, doesn't it?"

She quirked an eyebrow. "_Lovely _phrasing, Mr. Bond. But I collected the false information that you were sent here to plant within the first five minutes you were here. Do you really suppose your enemies think so highly of me, that they'd believe I was clever enough to extract anything from you that you weren't willing to give me?"

Bond smiled, unperturbed. "It's more that they think so lowly of _me_."

She considered for a moment. "So you came here hoping that someone out there would believe you were reckless or arrogant enough to divulge real information to a woman who had you lashed to her mattress. That plan in itself is so reckless and arrogant, it just might work."

"It _will _work, if you sell it correctly," Bond suggested.

She laughed. "Are you recruiting me?"

"I'm sure we could find a place for you, if you're interested. I wouldn't mind _having you_ 'round the office."

She studied him, thinking. "No…" she breathed. "That's not it... these games and toys of mine; they aren't doing it for you. So… _really_, what do you want from me?"

He relaxed back into the pillows, and finally flexed the hands that had been resting so comfortably in their restraints. "I want you to fuck me," he informed her. "I'll even say please."

She repressed a delighted laugh. "Do you have any particular _object_ that you would prefer me to use?"

"Yes actually," Bond said, his face all smirk. "Your body."

Nodding, understanding, Irene crawled up to him on the bed and swung one long pale leg over his torso, lowering herself slowly until she brushed his hip with her inner thigh. "Oh, how I'd love to," she said breathily, leaning in to plant a kiss over his heart. "I'm sure I would spend the better part of an hour, grinding away at you, like this…"

She demonstrated, avoiding penetration by the narrowest of margins. "While you lay there and control yourself. No doubt I would grow desperate to get you off, and work myself up to climax, all while you waited, biding your time, and _stalling_." She sat on him, wet and hot and just out of reach. Bond _hmm_d and smiled and bucked up against her, trying to work his way inside. For a second he almost had her, but she shifted away just in time. "Stalling for _what,_ though?"

Suddenly, she got off the bed, and went to the window, leaving Bond to buck comically at the air once or twice, annoyed at the loss of contact.

With two fingers she peeled back the edge of the gauzy curtain, and found her suspicions confirmed. "Ah. Stalling so that your friend in the car can finish hacking into my laptop. Of course."

She moved to her dresser, slipped her hand into a drawer, and switched off her wireless router. "There," she purred, turning her attention back to Bond. "So sorry to ruin your plan, but I already lost one large fortune to the government, and I won't let it happen again."

Gracefully, she came back to the bed and reclined beside him. "Now look at you…poor darling boy…" she rested her head on his arm, and jacked him with one strong, experienced hand. "…All _stood up_ with nowhere to go."

* * *

M was waiting for him in her office. Q trailed along behind, still looking out of place among all the tailored suits and military haircuts.

"Bond. And Q," she greeted them coolly.

"Ma'am," Bond replied, appropriately sullen as he braced for another scathing debrief.

"I didn't know Q was accompanying you on this little…escapade. Tell me, does it cost more that way, or was there a two-for-one discount?"

Q turned lobster red. "Oh—no, I, I stayed out in the car."

"Hmp," M sniffed dismissively, as if she didn't believe a word of it. "Well I won't presume to lecture either of you about stupidity or needless risks, since you're already experts in both subjects. But I do hope at least that you have more to report than, how did you put it?" she raised her mobile phone and read the text off the screen: "_the woman has beaten me_."

She slammed the phone down on her desk, as suddenly Bond and Q couldn't contain their clever little grins.

"It was more of a flogging," Bond offered.

"I'll flog you myself if that intel drop doesn't make it through to Chechnya." She saw the look in his eye that said he had a cheeky comeback on the tip of his tongue, and glared him down until he reconsidered making it.

"She knows the info is fake, but she'll market it convincingly enough," Bond assured her. "It will reach our Chechen friends, and the missing armaments should surface soon after."

That seemed to calm her down a bit. "And her computer?"

Q cleared his throat. "I was able to install about half of a cracking program before she shut it down."

"So you didn't get anything?"

"No ma'am." Q hung his head, going a little too far with his display of disappointment. Both M and Bond repressed a disgusted sneer at his rookie behavior until M remembered she had a bigger fish to fry.

"And you, _Bond_," she spat the name like a curse. "Are you telling me that with all your training and experience you were unable to recover a single unguarded, unsecured laptop from this woman's residence?"

Bond blinked at her as if she were speaking gibberish. "...I doubt Miss Adler would be very keen to help us transfer false data to the Chechens if we were to barge into her residence and steal her private property."

M pursed her lips. "Very well. But it's not enough. After what we went through the last time with this woman, we aren't taking any chances with her. She is a threat."

"I suppose I could kill her," Bond suggested, only half joking.

"We've tried to kill her twice already. She keeps coming back." M locked eyes with Bond. "She's your kind of girl."

Bond's smile flickered. "No. Unfortunately, my kind of girl stays dead."

"Let's consider her a female version of _you_, then. Anyway, what's your plan?" M pressed on, ensuring there was no chance for him to rebut her comment, or to dwell on his morbid remark.

He turned on her, annoyed. "There is no plan. She'll help us with the intel drop and that's the end of it. We tried, and now it's over. Didn't you get my text?"

Making a quick decision, M picked up her desk phone and pressed just one button. Bond and Q waited in heavy silence as the phone rang on the other end.

"Mycroft," M said when the line picked up. "I saw you in the meeting earlier, are you still in the building?" She glanced up at Q, who was doing his best to not have an expression on his much too young, much too innocent face. "Good. Will you stop by my office? I think we need your help."

* * *

Mycroft arrived, looking slightly hassled and put-upon; MI6 had never been his favorite department to work with, although he'd been trying hard to improve his relationships there. "M, good to see you," he said cheerfully enough, shaking her hand. "And 007, glad to finally meet you."

They shook hands, and Bond remembered why this man's name was familiar to him. "You're the fellow who named an airplane full of dead people after me."

"Ah yes, it was a convenient little code word at the time. I never imagined it would become my single greatest failure." His eyes tightened at the painful memory, and then he turned his attention to Q. "And Q, you're looking well. It's been too long. How is everything?"

"Hello Mycroft," Q said, with obvious relief at being treated so formally. "Things are going well. I like it here."

Mycroft lit up with a genuine smile that melted years away from his constantly worried face. "You know, I don't often get the chance to say this, but, you know how proud I am of you, Q."

"What?" Bond couldn't help but ask, realizing he was out of the loop. M intervened to bring him up to speed.

"Bond, Mycroft is Q's elder brother," M explained. Mycroft, to his credit, looked surprised that Bond hadn't known that already.

Bond looked back and forth between the brothers. "Sorry, you don't look alike."

Mycroft smiled, wrinkling the corners of his mouth. "Ah, but we _think_ alike," he revealed. Bond gave a little eyebrow-raise of acknowledgement; no further explanation required—a subtle note that Q missed, as he plowed on with the details.

"Mycroft here has the brain for strategy and politics, keeping track of who's doing what business and with whom; seeing how those networks function so he can manipulate-"

"Ah-ah," Mycroft corrected. "_Communicate_."

"I meant, _communicate_," Q continued, more carefully now, "with all key actors to ensure cooperation and success."

Mycroft beamed at him. "While our little Quartermaster here began programming at age 8 and hacked MI6 at age 12. We didn't see much of young Q for a few years after that, while he was…"

"…being educated," Q supplied with a grin. "I believe that is the _approved _terminology."

Bond's expression was guarded; while there was no sign of hostility between the two brothers, there was still something…_off_ about them. Something missing.

"Well, thank goodness the both of you decided to use your gifts in the service of Queen and Country," M interjected.

"Unlike _someone_ we know," Q couldn't resist adding.

Mycroft furrowed his brow. "Hm. Yes. Speaking of; M, this _is_ about the ignominious return of Miss Irene Adler, is it not?"

"It is," M confirmed.

"So you _do_ need the other Holmes. He's the only one who could have fooled me about Miss Adler's second death."

"The _other _Holmes?" Bond asked, trying his best to follow the conversation.

"Yes," M said gravely. "There is a third brother, the middle child. _Sherlock _Holmes."

"Sherlock Holmes," Bond repeated, and tilted his head to one side as he dredged out a reference. "Yes of course. He's some sort of detective; wears a deerstalker cap? Saw his picture plastered all over the_ Sun_ and the _Daily Mail_ and so forth, a while back."

Mycroft and Q shared a look. "That's the one," Mycroft admitted. "Our dear brother Sherlock, wasting his life away in selfish frivolity."

"He's done _some_ good," Q spoke up in his absent brother's defense. "Or at least, he's largely avoided doing evil, insofar as I've been able to monitor him."

"I keep a close eye on him as well," Mycroft mused. "But he just isn't living up to his potential."

Bond shook his head, scoffing. "Two of the greatest minds behind the British government, and they both spend their time spying on their delinquent brother. M, point me in the right direction. What's to do be done about Irene Adler?"

Mycroft spoke up before M had the chance. "It's not Adler; it's her _contact _who is really the problem. He's an expert hacker. Goes by _Moriarty_."

The name obviously meant something to both M and Q, who exchanged weighted glances. "Never heard of him," Bond said, impatient at being left out of the loop again. "Need me to go and kill him?"

Mycroft's eyebrows climbed. "Yes, that would be… constructive. But first you have to find him."

"I'll help," Q volunteered.

Mycroft nodded. "I'm sure you will, Q, but the key to finding Moriarty is Irene Adler's cooperation. And the key to Irene Adler is our brother Sherlock."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Bond asked, looking to M and seeking her nod of approval. "Let's go find the other Holmes."

* * *

A/N: ridiculously excited to be playing around in this niche fandom. Yay Bondlock!


	2. Chapter 2: The Middle Child

A/N: Really long chapter here, sorry. Not my fault Sherlock's so long-winded. I did a very tiny bit of research to make sure I wasn't crazy...buckle up!

* * *

Chapter 2: The Middle Child

Mrs. Hudson answered the door, and found herself face-to-face with the most intense, blazing cerulean eyes, set in one of the handsomest faces she had ever seen. Immediately her hand came up to her chest. "Oh, oh my. You are…"

Bond smiled and tipped his head forward in an abbreviated bow. "Delighted to meet you," he said. "Please call me James." He extended a hand towards her, and when she automatically placed her hand in his, he raised it to his mouth and kissed it, quite before Mrs. Hudson realized what he'd done.

"James, how lovely to meet you," she said breathlessly. She reclaimed her hand from his grasp and rubbed her knuckles, as if they'd been burnt by his lips. "We don't get, I mean we don't often see, around here, that is…" She noticed Q for the first time and seemed surprised all over again. "Oh! I see now. You'll be the impersonators, for the television reenactment of that dreadful crime thing with the witch doctor and the American racecar driver. John told me they fired Sherlock from playing himself on the very first day. But James, you'll have to tone it down a bit to play John, he isn't quite so flashy."

"Not flashy in the least," John agreed from halfway up the stairs behind her. He trotted down the last few steps and stood in the doorway beside his landlady, examining the visitors. "Hello," he said, extending his hand. "John Watson."

"James Bond," Bond said, shaking the offered hand.

"And you're from the, uh, the television people?" John looked at Q up and down. "My god, that's spot-on for Sherlock, except for the tie and the glasses. Well done."

"I'm not trying to be Sherlock," Q said awkwardly. "I'm his brother."

"Ha!" John looked up. "Sherlock will get a laugh out of that. Have you _seen _his brother? He's twice your age, for starters."

"May we come in?" Bond asked, voice soft and polite, not wanting to appear impatient.

"Of course." John and Mrs. Hudson stood aside and ushered Bond and Q in off the street. "Sherlock's upstairs," John went on. "They said they might send the actors 'round for an interview or something. Is there a camera crew with you, or…"

"We're not actually from a television show," Q explained, apologetically. "Mycroft cancelled that for you, and sent us over to see Sherlock. And Mycroft's _not_ twice my age, by the way, only fourteen years older. Don't worry though, I won't tell him you said that."

John was standing with his mouth open, trying to figure out what was going on. Mrs. Hudson, as always, intervened to salvage the situation. "Well if it's to do with Mycroft and his business I'd best stay out of the way of it. Sherlock!" she called up the stairs. "You've got guests!"

A flurry of Paganini's Caprice #13 screeched down the stairs at them in answer.

Q smirked. "I see the years haven't helped much with his playing," he said to John.

"He's only really bad at it when he's annoyed," John confided, leading the way up the stairs. "He does it on purpose."

When they reached the second floor, Sherlock scraped the bow over the violin strings one last time, and spun to face his visitors.

Bond took one look at Sherlock and muttered to Q, "Good lord, there's really two of you."

Meanwhile, Sherlock had sized up Bond well enough to instantly hate him, and turned to greet his little brother. "Hello, _Sherri_," he said to Q. "Glad to see they finally let you out of school."

"Nice to see you too, _Sherly_," Q replied, with a wan smile. "Terrible music, by the way. Don't they call that one _The Devil's Laughter?_ Mummy always hated that one."

"Strange prejudice for a woman who happily sold her sons off to the government," Sherlock remarked, lightning-fast.

"Only some of them," Q came back just as quickly. "The ones the government wanted; just the ones who were…qualified."

John took it upon himself to tame some of the saber-toothed tension in the room. "This 'mummy' of yours, Sherlock. Someday, I am going to have to meet her."

Bond made a tiny mental note, which Sherlock saw him do as clearly as if he'd painted his thoughts on the wall in five-foot letters.

With an exaggerated sigh, Sherlock tucked his violin back to his jaw and played something sad. "Sorry, Sherrinford. Thank you for proving that you're still alive, but I'm not interested in helping Mycroft and MI6 bring down Moriarty. The government had their chance and only made things worse. I'll deal with Moriarty on my own, when Mycroft isn't as likely to botch things up. Good day to you _brother_, good day Joe Bloggs or whoever you are; please try not to kill anyone between here and the door."

"Joe Bloggs?" Q grinned.

"Joe Bloggs, John Doe, John Smith, whatever they use for unnamed bodies these days," Sherlock said dismissively.

"His name is actually, um, James Bond," John remembered aloud. "Interesting… it's… phonetically similar."

"James Bond? Really? So appropriate," Sherlock acknowledged. "How convenient for you, to have such an inelegant name. I bet you love it."

Bond gave him a slow smile, and looked at him through half-closed eyes. "Spoken like a man who feels his own name leaves something to be desired. _Sherlock Holmes_… not nearly eccentric enough for you, I'd guess. Only halfway interesting. 'Sherlock' means _bright lake_, doesn't it? Harmless imagery; hardly gives you that keen edge you always wanted over your peers. And a common surname, how disappointing for you. I bet you're the type who always wanted to be named 'Peregrine Carruthers' or something similarly pretentious."

Sherlock spun his head to look at John, and wrinkled up his nose in a quirky smile. "_Peregrine Carruthers_?" he repeated. "Oh, I _do_ like that one." He turned right and left, announcing the name to either side of the room. "Peregrine Carruthers, Peregrine Carruthers. That's a name I could say all day."

"Please don't," John muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Anyway," Sherlock said, focusing like a laser on Bond. "I've suddenly remembered why your name isn't quite as forgettable or disposable as it ought to be: You're _the _James Bond, aren't you? That irresponsible secret agent Mycroft was cleaning up after for months on end after the execution of an unarmed hostage in the middle of an embassy."

"Secret agent… wait… _James Bond_…" John was putting something together now, his brow furrowed in concentration, and as soon as it dawned on him he blurted it out. "Hold on—are you the one who parachuted with _Queen Elizabeth_ into the Olympics?"

"Olympics?" Sherlock frowned as if he were struggling to remember the definition of the word. "Oh yes, Olympics. That embassy mess was a few years back; has there been an Olympics since?" he looked to John for help.

John shook his head, slightly annoyed. "Are you serious? Sherlock, it was here in _London_. Practically right down the street! Don't you remember the decorations, the tourists, anything?"

"Vaguely. It was unimportant at the time."

"The case about the missing athletes? From Africa?" John went on. "Ring a bell yet?"

"Oh, that one was boring," Sherlock pronounced, sounding as if it bored him all the more to even mention it.

"The case about the poisoned gymnast?"

"Uninteresting."

John looked over at their guests. Sherlock's little brother was staring back at him, eyebrows high in amusement behind his glasses. Something about his face said that his was exactly the sort of show he'd hoped to see. James Bond, on the other hand, seemed utterly unimpressed.

That was odd, John noted, and was slightly bothered by it. Sherlock was very good at eliciting reactions. People were commonly shocked or infuriated or agitated or amazed when Sherlock was spouting off. Even Moriarty fed hungrily off Sherlock's energy. People around Sherlock were never just _apathetic_, as Mr. Bond appeared to be. _Too cool by half_, thought John. _Dangerous_.

"So we had an Olympics," Sherlock continued, and pointed at Bond with his violin bow. "And you, Mr. Bond, parachuted right into the middle of it? Dear me, what a _stunt_. A public event like that, applauded by the whole world—there's no way MI6 would expose its most disgraced agent to such rampant publicity, much less trust him with the life and safety of our beloved Queen."

Q felt the need to explain. "Mycroft set it up, in order to distance-" he said in John's direction, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Distance _Bond _from the embassy debacle," Sherlock finished, and breathed angrily through his nose. "Bond hides in plain sight. _Mycroft_, yes of course _Mycroft_," Sherlock said in disgust. "It _stinks_ of Mycroft."

"So you knew who I was all along," said Bond, in a tone that meant, _stop wasting my time_.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "No, Mr. Bond, I did not know _who_ you were until John said your name. But I knew _what_ you were, as soon as I laid eyes on you."

Sherlock stepped deliberately into Bond's personal space, which set all John's protective instincts ringing like a fire alarm. It was all John could do to stop himself from pulling Sherlock back to a safe distance. _Risking his life to prove he's clever_, John realized. _Go on then, Sherlock, we all know there's no stopping you now_.

"I knew you were a killer," Sherlock said in a low voice, hands clasped imperiously behind his back. "And not just because of the weapon under your arm and the fact that I investigate killers as a hobby. Everything about you screams it at me. Your association with my little brother implies MI6, but not everyone in the government can pull the triggers. Only a special breed does that; the deadly elite, of which you are _emphatically_ the best. I see your suit, your watch, shoes, fingernails and haircut and you've shown me your entire hand-and I can tell you _liked_ that idiom just now, _so I know that you play cards_, and definitely _well_, because you don't do anything unless you do it better than everyone else. Your translation of my name earlier was interesting; you went for the Scottish 'loch' although of course you had Mycroft's name to go off first, and that has a distinctly Scottish sound to it as well. And you ignored Sherrinford's name in your supposition, showing a preference for the Scottish origin of things which leads me to suspect that _you're originally from Scotland yourself_; that and the fact that you play golf, which was a guess based on your shoes and your hips but a correct one, because you're controlling your facial expressions and you showed no surprise when I said it, while if I'd been wrong you would have looked surprised in order to encourage me onwards to an erroneous conclusion."

He stopped for a breath, and Bond smiled. "Surely there's more," he prompted, and Sherlock didn't disappoint him.

"Your expensive if I may use the slang term '_Oxbridge_' education is evident in your tailored suit; and while you were at school I'm sure you studied rowing, literature and women and made more enemies than friends. You've never been able to stay out of trouble; life without trouble suffocates you, hence the reckless gambling and the borderline alcoholism and the endless string of marriages you've ruined, none of them yours, of course, because that would be stifling and you know _you could never be satisfied with just one woman_. Ah, except _her_, naturally. It's so obvious, now. You are an unrepentant misogynist, but with that fatal flaw of sentimentality. How do I know? Because you gave a little nod of your head when I mentioned '_just one_'. You nodded your head because at that point you could have said '_but_': there _was_ that one time, when there was _just one_ girl for you. You nodded to concede the point to me, '_very well Mr. Holmes, that is so_'; however you wouldn't have allowed me that point unless you had a counterpoint primed to fire; in this case the counterpoint that _you were once in love_ and I am sure it ended badly, but sentimental types just can't let go. Now you're thinking how easy it would be for you to kill me, how surprised I would look with your hands on my throat or a gun to my head. But now you hear me say it aloud and you catch yourself, disgusted. It's unprofessional to want to kill on a whim; it's dangerous. But then again, they are your feelings and why repress them? They've made you who you are today and _you're the best there's ever been_. You add up into one thing, Mr. Bond: Arrogance."

Sherlock leaned in even closer and sniffed near Bond's collar. "And although it's hardly relevant, I can also tell that you had sex earlier today, and judging by Sherri's priceless expression right now I would guess that he was somehow involved, although probably not intimately since I can't smell any of _you _on him and he hasn't showered since last night. So who were you with? Someone at the office, very likely. Too much effort to keep a mistress, so probably a married woman you seduced on a whim. Didn't even bother to shower before putting back on your suit—that's the apathy of someone who has been immunized to sex. I can smell just a bit of a woman's perfume under your cologne. Smells like—" Sherlock stopped abruptly and took a step back.

Bond met his eyes with a cruel little smirk. "Yes, Irene Adler. Old girlfriend of yours?" he asked, and then shook his head. "No, not likely, not with your boyfriend standing guard like a mother hen. Look at him now, hovering, ready to jump in and save you when you're over your head."

"Er, I'm not his boyfriend," John felt obliged to point out. Bond ignored him.

"Of course you are right about me," Bond admitted to Sherlock. "I like do like golf, gambling and women. But _you're_ not the only one who can _read people_, Mr. Holmes. And _I'm_ not the only arrogant sot in the room, am I?"

"He's got a point there," Q muttered with a grin.

"Very well," Sherlock said. "Have your turn, then. What can you deduce about me?"

"I'd say yours was a lonely childhood, classic case of middle child syndrome, brothers outshining you left and right," Bond began, voice just as quick as Sherlock's had been, only smoother and less aggressive. "Left you with a _pathological need to_ _prove yourself_ all the time, and there's nothing you love better than attention, which was so scarce in those early years. I'm guessing your mother was mostly human; you got your eccentricity from your father, though _his _is probably a sad story; I'm guessing he never quite factored into your life. Maybe he didn't know how to deal with children; therefore the role of second parent fell to Mycroft, and from there it was all _violin lessons and Latin and Greek and Russian and your insect collection_ and before you knew it, you were off to university. Your education wasn't as expensive as mine; you probably studied chemistry judging by the mess on your kitchen table. Chess club bored you and debate club loathed you and you guessed _rowing_ for me, correctly by the way, so I'll guess it was _fencing_ for you, and I'll bet you made an honest effort at it though the shorter boys usually beat you and you were most likely kicked off the team. You _did_ graduate, barely, but afterwards you lacked ambition so you moved back home and amused yourself with trivia and memorizing lists or whatever _bored geniuses_ do until your mother caught you with drugs in your mid-twenties and tossed you out. So then you scrounged around in London until you figured a way to prove how much smarter you were than everyone else, and that's when you discovered your knack for solving crimes. Lucky break, that. And you got even luckier when you found your faithful boyfriend,"

"Not his boyfriend," John muttered, off to the side.

Bond smiled. "Watson here picked you up, dusted you off, and has been looking after you ever since. Probably picks up dirty plates and cups when you leave them stacked on your piles of books. Waters that one sad plant that you can never remember to take care of. Such domestic bliss. He even keeps you off your _smoking habit_, doesn't he? I see the cigarette burns on the older furniture; that chair you brought from your old room at Mummy's house. They're the work of a bored and shiftless young man, malcontented because the world owes him something, _some recognition for his brilliance_ probably, though it's always Mycroft and little Sherri that get all the special attention from the powers on high. How'm I doing so far?"

"Good," Sherlock reported, voice carefully measured. "Go on."

"The grudge against the brothers is really pathetic; you refuse to admit what is obvious to everyone else. You're not as well-adjusted as they are; not as fit for life in _normal human society._ You also don't have the patriotism and sense of duty that your brothers have, although your boyfriend does,"

"Still not his boyfriend," John chimed in.

"Which is really interesting, since it would seem that you admire and respect the same qualities in _him_ that you so thoroughly despise in your brothers. And speaking of _Doctor _John Watson; and yes, I say 'doctor' because his medical credentials are on display in a frame over there in plain sight; what is he doing here? Why does he need _Sherlock Holmes_ in his life? He's clearly ex-military, but that's hardly a handicap in the world today, so what do _you_ provide for him? Distraction? Excitement? Maybe it's 'ordinary life' that he fears most of all, and you're saving him from it. Maybe you've given some sense of purpose to his post-military career. He probably believes the two of you are fighting for truth and justice; very noble of him although _you're _just in it for your personal gratification; it's all a game and _you just love winning it_. But you tolerate your boyfriend's high moral principles-"

"_Not his boyfriend_," John recited.

"Because he's valuable to you. And not just because he's more approachable, more able to empathize with the normal people—people are willing to _talk_ to John Watson when all they want to do is punch _Sherlock Holmes_ in the mouth. But that's not your favorite use for him, is it? Oh yes, what you _really_ need from Dr. Watson is more insidious; he's your _captive audience,_ your ever-loyal sidekick always on hand to tell you how great you are, and you just _love him for it_, don't you?"

Without giving Sherlock time to answer, Bond turned his attention to John. "And the more I think about your situation with Sherlock here, the more interesting you become. Your detective seems to disapprove of me as a killer, but _you've_ killed people too. How many?"

"Seven," John answered.

"A lucky number," Bond complimented him. "And you're clearly not in any hurry to make it eight, although if the need arises you'd have no qualms about it. You were wounded in Afghanistan?"

"Yes, shot in the shoulder," John supplied automatically.

"And captured,"

John swallowed several times, breaking eye contact. "Yes," John finally confirmed. At that, Sherlock looked at him strangely, a million questions on his face.

"And tortured," Bond stated, matter-of-fact.

"Yes," John said quietly.

"What?" Sherlock exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief. "You never told me that!"

"…It never came up," John answered simply. "Sorry."

"So you really _aren't_ sleeping together after all," Bond finally concluded.

Now Sherlock was angry. "Wait a minute. Despite John's persistent corrections, you assumed we were a couple until just now—what changed your mind?"

"Simple," Bond said. "Look at him, he hasn't slept right in ages. If you were sharing a bed with him, you'd know about his nightmares."

Sherlock stared at John, who raised his eyebrows, tugged his mouth sideways, and nodded. He had to admit, Bond was totally right; nightmares were still an issue from time to time.

"Well Sherlock?" Q teased. "How did he do? Is Bond a worthy sparring partner for you after all?"

"He read Mycroft's file on me, that's all."

Bond shrugged. "Correct."

"But how'd you know about the fencing?" Sherlock asked, suspicious. "Mycroft never put anything in about fencing."

Bond pointed to the side of the room. "There's a foil, a saber and an epee in that umbrella stand. Wasn't much of a leap."

Sherlock still seemed rather deflated. John clapped him on the arm. "Come on Sherlock, cheer up. At least now you know what it feels like when you do it to other people."

"Do it? Do what?" Sherlock was sulking, and just this once, John wasn't peeved at him for it.

"Tell their life story by looking at them," John explained. "Not so nice on the receiving end, is it?"

"But Mycroft's file on John doesn't mention capture or torture. If it did, I would have found it."

"You're right," Bond said. "But I didn't need to read a file to figure out John. It's all on his face."

Sherlock searched John's face; the same face he'd seen a hundred thousand times. John gave a self-deprecating little smile. "I don't see it," Sherlock muttered.

Bond suddenly made up his mind about something. "Q, see if you can get your brother to help us," he instructed.

Q's brow twitched. "Where are you going?" he asked.

"To a pub. Come on, John. I'm taking you out for a drink. I've had quite enough of _Sherlock Holmes_ for today."

* * *

A/N: yep, that one was a great big win for James Bond. If anyone can make Sherlock take his own medicine, it's James Bond. Still going to be sex in this story, awfully dark sex too... just wanted to make sure the characters understood one another first. Thanks for reading... I realized reviews would be sparse for a crossover on ff.n, but that just makes me appreciate you guys even more for taking the time to say what you thought. love ya.


	3. Chapter 3: Nothing Else Will Do

Chapter 3: Nothing Else Will Do

For the better part of an hour, neither man felt the need to speak. John nursed a beer and stared distractedly at a rugby match on the telly, and did not think about Afghanistan, while James downed three glasses of bourbon and summoned a fourth, not thinking about anything or anyone from his past at all.

They seemed both a contradictory and a complimentary pair, both deliberately ignoring their training by sitting at the bar, backs to the door, defying the conventional wisdom of keeping one's back to the wall. Their haircuts seemed to follow the same general line of thinking; John's clearly indicating retired status as James' indicated active duty. Their clothing had nothing in common, with John in jeans and James in his ostentatious suit, which was probably concealing the equivalent of a black label somewhere in addition to a firearm.

The biggest difference was the sense of living in real life that radiated from John; his existence was a bit worn-in. Some of his life had been poured out and shared with others, and he'd allowed some of the lives of other people to be poured and mixed into his own, leaving evidence that he'd experienced joy, contentment and comfort in addition to suffering.

James on the other hand showed none of that wear and tear; rugged and scarred as he might be, he was still fresh out of the box. Razor-sharp. And alone.

John stole a sideways glance at the man seated beside him and was just beginning to wonder if there was anything they ought to be talking about. Meanwhile, James had been glancing sideways at John almost the entire time, wondering if the good doctor was ever going to say anything to him.

"The Holmes boys," Bond muttered at last, as the ice settled in his drink.

"Hn," John grunted in noncommittal response.

The side of Bond's mouth twitched up. "Too bad for them there are still other ways of doing business."

John blinked a few times and decided there was no shame in admitting he didn't quite follow. "How do you mean?"

"Irene Adler," Bond mused. "Those genius little children can tap at their screens all day, and might not be any closer to finding our man. But Irene knows where he is. Or at least how to reach him."

John nodded carefully, finally putting together all the bits and pieces that had already been cast out in front of him. "So… Mycroft sent you over here because he thinks Sherlock can get 'The Woman' to lead you to Moriarty. So you can kill him?"

"Yes. Problem is, Sherlock doesn't have a clue about what Irene wants from him."

John wrinkled up his forehead and swigged his beer, unable to argue with that. Bond stood up and settled the tab.

"I still believe in going direct," James said in that quiet voice of his, putting at least three different connotations into the phrase, each more enticing than the last. "Come on, John."

* * *

Irene's new home or place of business was just as posh as the previous one, John noted as he was shown into the sitting room by Irene's demure assistant.

John took a seat in one of the plush Victorian wingbacks. James was already making himself at home, finding the stash of alcohol and helping himself to the gin. John had watched his sister in her drinking habits for long enough to know a problem when he saw one; he also knew when not to bring it up.

"_Doctor_ Watson," Irene said, appearing in the doorway and saying the name as if it were a breath of fresh air. "Nice to see you again."

"Nice to see you wearing clothes," John replied before he could stop himself; he had just been in the middle of remembering the first time he'd encountered the dominatrix in her residence when she'd stepped in.

Irene smiled at him hungrily. "And how _is_ our dear detective?" she asked.

"More importantly, how would you like him to be?" Bond asked huskily, holding his glass within millimeters of his lips.

"Oh this is good," Irene said, and John could've sworn he saw her pupils contract as if on command, zeroing on some target. "Such _intrigue_. Are you gentlemen here to make some sort of _offer_, perhaps?"

"Tell us how to find this 'Moriarty' character and in return, I'll make sure you get whatever you want," Bond promised.

Irene pouted, and looked at John in envy. "What I _want_… I can't _have_, can I, John?"

The way she exhaled at the word _'have'_ made John feel like he might start sweating. "You mean Sherlock?" he asked, keeping his voice utterly level, betraying none of his apprehension.

"Don't be too sure," Bond muttered. "I've been authorized to truss him up like a Christmas goose and leave him on your doorstep if you'd like."

"Hm! So you've met him…otherwise you wouldn't have sounded so eager just now," Irene said, eyes sparkling with unvoiced laughter. "He _does_ seem in need of a good trussing up, doesn't he?"

"That's one way to put it," Bond murmured, saluting Irene with his glass before taking a sip.

"Just to be clear," John interrupted, leaning forward, "You all _aren't _actually plotting to kidnap him or anything…are you?" he looked back and forth between their faces. They were both staring at him now, with identical, unblinking expressions, and John suddenly realized he was facing two lions who would happily eat him alive.

"No, no," Irene said, tearing her eyes away from John at last. She sighed. "Kidnapping would be amusing but also so tedious and so very temporary. I need something more…enduring. A memento, I think. To remember him by."

"Memento, oh," John said, visibly relieved. "Well, that doesn't sound too difficult. What are you thinking, some, eh, photograph? Lock of his hair? Need me to nick some shirt that he slept in or something?"

"Oh my, those are lovely ideas," Irene complimented him. "Shirt that he slept in—that is delicious. I knew you were a romantic one, Watson." Without any warning, Irene swung down and seated herself in John's lap, wrapping her arms loosely over his shoulders. She sighed, and drew all John's attention to her cherry-red lips. "We live in a frightfully technological age," she lamented in a sultry purr. "Photographs just aren't enough anymore. I need something more interactive and dynamic. I want a video."

"Video, sure," said John. "No problem. Let's uh, call up Mycroft; he's got cameras everywhere, probably right here in this room."

"Chandelier," Bond deadpanned, pointing at it without looking up.

"Right," John said, and then frowned, his mind very actively recalling the profession of the woman currently perched, quite hot and heavy, on his thigh. "Wait. What do you want a video _of_, exactly?"

Irene wrinkled up her nose, and then leaned in towards John's face, lending the impression that she might be about to sink a pair of fangs into his throat—but instead she just rubbed her nose against his, as if cuddling a favorite little pet. "Something _filthy_," she confided. "Something explicit." She hummed a hungry little laugh, and stroked John's cheek with two fingers, which she then placed against his lower lip. "Nothing else will do."

John grimaced, disgusted, and shook his face away from her fingers. "All right, get off, get off me," he protested, trying to stand up to escape her caress. Irene smoothly stepped aside, allowing him up, and stalked over to the other man in the room.

Bond was casually leaning one hand on the liquor cabinet, stock still, posing there as if waiting for someone to snap his picture for a magazine. The corners of his mouth flickered upwards as Irene circled around behind him.

"Don't worry John," Irene said lightly. "You won't have to get your hands dirty. You can be the cameraman. You could even be the director, if you like. Keep things… professional." She reached for Bond's shoulders from behind, smoothed her hands over them and dug her fingers into his traps in a brutal massage that felt like heaven, if the responsive flutter of Bond's eyelids meant anything. "Some higher power has placed this beautiful machine at my disposal," Irene was saying as Bond flexed subtly into the pressure of her hands. "It'd be a _sin_ not to use him."

* * *

At first John had condemned the whole idea and refused to participate. Only after Bond explained that he was prepared to get John out of the way and proceed with the plan anyway did John reluctantly get on board. Irene had decided to capture her desired memento via a live video chat through a laptop, which she would of course record. She swore she'd never share or sell the footage; it would be strictly 'for her eyes only,' which was a demarcation that James seemed to appreciate.

Kate, the assistant, had distracted John in the hall while Irene mentioned something privately to James concerning her particular wishes. John had tried his best to eavesdrop but had missed most of it. Only one word had stuck out: _indoctrination_. Whatever that was supposed to mean, it scared the hell out of John, and as he and Bond returned to Baker Street his mind was jumpy with possible ways to sabotage the whole mess. He could break the laptop Irene had entrusted to him, for example. It was an expensive one, and he'd probably have to replace it, but still.

One side of his mind was screaming at him that this, whatever it actually was, was bad. Very, very bad. This was dangerous and wrong and crossing the line. Yet another side of his mind tried to reason that this video business probably wasn't that big a deal. How bad could it be, anyway? Irene had a thing for Sherlock. So what? Did she want to watch Bond smack him around for her? She'd already drugged Sherlock and given him a sound thrashing once, and while it was technically an assault Sherlock had survived that and might've actually enjoyed it; John wasn't sure. Of course John knew Irene liked to take clothes off people; perhaps this memento video would be some kind of a strip tease; more ridiculous than offensive really. If asked, Sherlock might just scoff and take all his clothes off for the hell of it. The worst part of that would be John having to be in the room, playing 'cameraman' by holding the computer.

No, John realized, he was missing something. There was something he couldn't think of, some other part to this. Bond. Strange as it was, Irene could have easily sent John scampering off to record videos of Sherlock all day—why did Bond have to be involved? There could be no innocent reason for that, John realized with a queasy feeling. John liked James Bond, intrinsically. Dangerous and cold as he was, John liked him. He'd been perfectly comfortable sitting in silence next to Bond in the pub earlier. There was some kind of connection there. But he didn't want the man anywhere near Sherlock.

* * *

Back at the flat, Sherly and Sherri were sitting cross-legged on the floor, each typing frenetically, tag-teaming code into a darknet forum; one of those sites that raised the hair on the back of your neck. Neither of them looked up as John and James walked through the door. They'd assembled a small array of five or six computers, including John's personal one, he was slightly miffed to observe.

"So!" John announced to the two oblivious, mostly-identical dark-haired heads. "Got any leads?"

No reply. John looked to James, who actually rolled his eyes.

"No," Sherrinford finally answered in an abrupt voice, a few seconds after the question had expired. He glanced up at them a moment later, as if suddenly catching up from a time lag. "Oh, you're back."

"Any luck here?" Bond asked him, now that he had the boy's attention.

Sherrinford shook his head.

"Then pack it up, and get out," Bond ordered him.

The youngest Holmes brother took a minute to process that, blinking rapidly behind his glasses. "Do I have to remind you that the chain of command—ah," he stopped talking as Bond crossed the room in two steps, lifted the computer out of his lap, and pulled him to his feet by the collar.

"Out," Bond said in a bored voice, all but tossing young Q down the stairs by the scruff of his neck. "You can go tell M that Irene Adler's agreed to help us."

"In return for what?" Sherrinford asked from the stairs, attempting to fix his mussed collar with one hand while protectively cradling his computer with the other.

"You don't need to know," Bond informed him, closing the door in his face. He turned back around, running his eyes over the room before fixing them on Sherlock, who was still deliberately ignoring everything going on around him.

"John, get Adler on the screen," Bond said in a get-down-to-business voice, and John opened the laptop and did as told. Bond repositioned himself directly in front of Sherlock, and waited for the detective to look up and acknowledge his presence.

Irene's face appeared in the little chat box, smiling eagerly. "Ready?" Irene asked John, and then flashed her eyes around at the scenery of the room behind John's head. "Such a quaint little flat," she said wistfully. "I rather love it."

John met that with a tense grimace. "Yeah, thanks," he managed, unable to suppress the sarcasm.

"Turn me around, I want to see Sherlock," Irene purred, sounding so very naughty. John obeyed. It was James who angled his head to look at the woman on the screen once it was facing him. Sherlock still appeared to be totally absorbed in his work, stubbornly refusing to look up.

"Good enough?" Bond asked.

"Guess we'll find out," Irene replied coyly. "Hmm! Excuse me, Sherlock? Hello, my darling. Over here."

With an exasperated sigh, and making the same face that a teenager might make upon being told to leave off his video games to do his homework, Sherlock closed the screen of his own computer and looked over at Irene.

Considering what a dramatic huff he appeared to be in, Sherlock then asked: "What's going on?" in an impressively calm and monotone voice.

"My dear friend Mr. Bond is going to make a little video for me," Irene explained. "And I'm afraid you're going to be the subject."

Sherlock considered that for a minute, seemed to grasp the likely meaning of it all, and narrowed his eyes at John. "And John is cooperating only under threat of removal from the equation, obviously," he muttered, and then locked eyes with Irene. "Tell me, will Mr. Bond be tying my hands to anything in particular for this little video?"

"Depends on how much you struggle," said Irene, voice dripping with false sympathy.

Sherlock smiled for a split-second, then his expression turned to stone. "Struggle," he echoed. "Why would I struggle? I wouldn't dream of struggling. While I am far from helpless and quite capable of defending myself in this situation it would hardly be prudent; Miss Adler I am disappointed in you. Mr. Bond is clearly my superior in terms of physical strength and has already decided how to incapacitate John if he should try to come to my aid; therefore struggling would be absolutely pointless and would only prolong and likely intensify whatever pain you wish to inflict on me."

Not waiting for anyone's reaction to that rapid-fire bit of reasoning, Sherlock rose to his feet, too close to Bond, lending emphasis to the fact that Sherlock was a bit taller than him. "If I promise to play along, may I keep my hands free? I ask only because I _am_ in the middle of something important and would prefer to continue typing while this… animal…does whatever you've sent him here to do."

Bond tipped his head, conceding the point. He then grabbed the lapels of Sherlock's jacket, jerking him forwards so he could attack Sherlock's mouth with his own, biting into his lips.

"What the _fuck_—" John complained loudly across the room. Sherlock froze, then closed his eyes. Once Bond let him go, he opened them slowly, and immediately glanced over at Irene.

"Right," Sherlock said tersely, tucking his laptop under his arm. "Wouldn't we be more comfortable in the bedroom?"

* * *

A/N: I'm evil, I know. To be continued, and soon.


	4. Chapter 4: Personal Viewing Pleasure

A/N: so, I have this great love of dark humor...and horrible awkwardness. In this chapter, the role of Dark Humor will be played by James Bond, and as for Horrible Awkwardness, well... that's obvious. heh heh heh...

* * *

Chapter 4: Personal Viewing Pleasure

"Right," Sherlock said tersely, tucking his laptop under his arm. "Wouldn't we be more comfortable in the bedroom?"

"Hah," John said loudly, and held out his hand in the universal signal for _stop_. "No. No you would not. This is not happening."

Sherlock looked at him fondly. "Sorry to say, John, but it probably is."

"What are you talking about?" John protested. "Have you gone completely mad? Time out. Just, time out, Sherlock. You do realize what's going on here? That man," he pointed at Bond accusingly, "is going to sex you up, right now, for Irene Adler's personal viewing pleasure." John held up Irene's laptop and shook it a bit for emphasis, while the woman herself beamed from the screen and gave a dainty little wave. "I admit, it took me until now to actually grasp the whole concept, but that's what this is. And you cannot convince me that you are okay with it."

Sherlock sighed and used his best it's-really-quite-simple-John voice. "Our source of information, there," Sherlock pointed to Irene, "wants this to happen, and her lethally capable piece of equipment, here," he pointed at Bond, "is going to carry it out. The less resistance from us, the better."

Bond took advantage of that moment to wrap his hand around Sherlock's arm and squeeze. "Actually, a _decent_ amount of resistance from you _would_ be preferable to none at all. From my perspective, at least," Bond said to Sherlock, sounding polite and amused, and nodded towards the bedroom. "Shall we?"

Irene breathed loudly from the computer, the thrill of anticipation evident even in that simple sound. John felt annoyed; any second now she was probably going to start moaning and sighing even worse than that stupid text-alert noise she'd added to Sherlock's phone. Here he was, John thought to himself, stuck as the audience once again for the Irene vs. Sherlock sexual tension showdown; why did he have to be in the middle of it, and how was he going to get Sherlock out of this mess?

"Let's," Sherlock replied, leading the way. From his first few steps John identified that he was walking a little bit on his toes, doing one of those unconscious things he sometimes did that would earn a child a serious neurological evaluation if it were a persistent habit. John had long suspected that Sherlock might have some form of Asperger's, and was therefore hypervigilant for any traits he might display from the Autism spectrum. Maybe it was nothing, but in that instant, that little bit of tip-toeing seemed to fall in that realm.

"Nope," John decided aloud, taking Irene's laptop with him and following Sherlock and Bond down the hall. As he went, he turned the screen around to glare at Irene. She looked surprised to see him. "This is not happening," he told her. "You've got to put a stop to it."

"I want to see Sherlock," Irene pouted, ignoring his demand.

By now they were all in Sherlock's room. Exasperated, John turned the computer around again. "There he is," John narrated, in a tone that could easily turn into a yell.

"Take your clothes off," Bond whispered to the back of Sherlock's head, just loud enough for Irene to hear.

"And look at me while you do it," Irene added.

His shoulders locked up a bit at that, but his face was sneering as he turned it towards the screen. "Making John record this, on a _laptop_, really," Sherlock scoffed. "How amateurish. Wouldn't you rather have him use a real camera? I think we have one." As he spoke he dismissed the buttons on his jacket and shrugged out of it.

"Mmm. I like this set-up just fine," Irene replied.

"Well I don't like it at all," John complained, quite urgently. "You're all three of you insane if you think I'm going to stand by—"

"James?" Irene prompted.

Bond looked up at John. "Oh, you'll _stand by_, Watson," he growled, cutting John off. "Or you'll be unconscious on the floor. Your choice."

John was filled with the sudden urge to chuck the laptop at Bond's head and make a dash for the nearest weapon. "Don't make things worse John," Sherlock was saying, sounding as if this was one of the most tedious days of his entire life. "Just stand there and do as Miss Adler says."

"But you can't seriously-" John began to protest, until Sherlock interrupted him with the kind of sigh that meant John was being exceptionally boring.

"I'll be fine. My little brother was good enough to provide me with an adequately interesting puzzle and my mind is already preoccupied with solving it. I'm sure I'll scarcely notice whatever Mr. Bond wishes to do to the rest of me."

For some reason Bond thought that was a good cue to catch John's eye, and sent him a distinct '_we'll see about that'_, without saying a word.

Sherlock finished undressing himself, and sat naked on the bed, all while gazing dispassionately at Irene's face on the screen. "Very nice," the woman purred at him. "Your turn, James. Clothes off."

Bond gave some grunt of agreement and began to strip, clearly not in a hurry about it. As Irene seemed to be appreciating _that _little sideshow, Sherlock went ahead and settled his computer on his lap, opening the screen and immediately tapping a few keys.

John looked at his flatmate, saw a troublingly vacant expression settling on his face. "_Sherlock_," said John, and was relieved when Sherlock responded by looking up at him. "Listen to me, please. This is beyond the pale. What are you doing?"

"Cryptanalysis," Sherlock explained. "Usually not my favorite, but Sherri was clever enough to dig up some ciphertexts that a group of elite hackers are using which are clearly asymmetric yet non-mathematic, so we are attempting-"

"No!" John exploded. "Jesus, Sherlock, I don't care about your stupid puzzle!"

Sherlock's eyes gleamed, reflecting the blue-white of his screen. "Whereas _I_ do not care about-"

"Sex, John," Irene smirked on the laptop. "That's your answer. That's what he's doing, or about to be doing."

John was suddenly aware that he was the only person in the room wearing any clothes. He gave the now-nude James Bond a once-over; it was impossible not to. All the physical perfection promised by that _suit_ he'd been wearing was there, and then some. And Sherlock was just sitting on the bed, typing on his computer. It was all so ridiculous, somehow, seeing Sherlock act so impassive.

John shook his head. "Unbelievable," he said, feeling himself start to give up on the idea of intervening. "This is unbelievable."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his friend. "I once told Mycroft that sex doesn't alarm me; it also doesn't concern me in the slightest. I can think of nothing so mundane and so simple to decode as human sexuality."

John had a revelatory thought then; Sherlock was as bored and unimpressed with Bond's sex appeal as Bond had been bored and unimpressed by Sherlock's intellect earlier.

Bond was looking to Irene for direction, and Irene made a little 'scoot over' motion with her hand. Bond moved towards Sherlock, and John had to resist the urge once again to throw himself in between them, shielding Sherlock from mortal danger.

"I think a little sex might do you good," Bond muttered, reaching one hand around the back of Sherlock's neck to slide it up through his hair. He pulled his face close to Sherlock's, leaning in with one of his knees on the bed, between Sherlock's thighs. "I am going to fuck you until you can't form a coherent thought. Until you are unable to utter a single beautiful word with this _mouth_." He dragged his thumb across Sherlock's lips, and followed that up with a quick nip of a kiss, pushing his face into Sherlock's face and leaving it there. "I will fuck you until the only thing you know is what I make you feel," he promised, his lips brushing against Sherlock's with every syllable.

Irene clapped her hands, applauding. Bond glanced back at her, and then over at John, who gave him his best murderous glare. For whatever reason, Bond sent him a wink in reply. John chewed his lower lip.

"_Please _proceed," Irene urged.

Bond pushed Sherlock backwards and climbed on top of him. Sherlock seemed very obviously annoyed that he had to move his laptop out of the way.

"Over to the side, John, I want to see their faces," Irene directed, and John carried the computer over, reminded afresh of how ludicrous his role in this insane little porno really was. He started to feel just a little bit detached, almost the way it happened in combat sometimes, like what was happening around him wasn't even real and he wasn't really a part of it.

_Snap out of it_, John ordered himself.

Calloused hands were tracing Sherlock's outline now, bearing down in approval wherever they found muscle under all that smooth white skin. If Sherlock was particularly averse to being touched, at least he had enough control not to show it. He did look annoyed when Bond kissed his throat, and seemed ticklish about pressure on his navel on down, although that was hardly strange.

Watching Bond go through the motions now, watching Sherlock caught somewhere between not knowing how to react or willfully not wanting to, John felt suddenly sad. _You idiot_, he thought at Sherlock as much as at himself. _I know you could think up a way to get out of this. Why are you letting this happen?_

"Do you mind if I turn over?" Sherlock asked abruptly, after a few minutes of being fondled and teased into an uncomfortable state of arousal. He'd been trying to focus on his computer, but was having trouble typing anything with Bond crouching over him like some huge bird of prey.

"I'd prefer it," Bond replied, leaving a final kiss on Sherlock's collarbone.

Sherlock propped himself on one elbow and awkwardly twisted onto his stomach, while Bond smirked at him, one hand on Sherlock's shoulder and one hand on himself.

Setting his computer out in front of him where he could easily type on it, Sherlock looked briefly pleased to be in a better position to continue his ciphertext decryption. But then those rough hands were on his back, exploring, thumbs counting ribs where they joined his spine, and there were warm lips pressed between his shoulder blades traveling up to suck the back of his neck.

John watched it happen with excruciating clarity: that exact moment when Sherlock's train of thought derailed and sent its precious cargo tumbling over a cliff. It happened rarely enough, working on cases. It had happened at Baskerville, John remembered all too well: Sherlock's mind had been overpowered by something else, some foreign, forbidden function performed by his brain without authorization from its operator.

It had been _fear_ that time. This time it appeared to be sensory overload, over-stimulation from physical contact. All his skin and muscle was singing at him now, and _finally _getting his attention; his circulation was affected, his heart rate too, all of it suddenly impossible to ignore.

Sherlock let go of his computer and brought his hands to his head, dug his fingers into his scalp, as if trying to prevent his mind from escaping his skull.

Bond sensed the shift in the body beneath him and murmured his approval. He was just now rubbing sensitive skin on sensitive skin, as much of it as he could reach, slowly and thoroughly back and forth with as little assistance from his hand as he could manage. The friction was hot and dangerous and _close _but this was still just foreplay; still just communicating his intent, over and over and over. Sherlock's athletic little shoulder muscles quivered as he tensed them, making Bond smile. "Getting the message yet?" Bond whispered to him, each word an insistent rock of his hips. "It's going to be _just. like. this_."

_Taking his sweet time, this bastard_, John criticized silently, feeling a bit of resentment towards all people who had incredible patience about such things.

"Mmm," Irene uttered appreciatively, and the sound brought John's eyes down to the laptop. And the light in the room must have been just right, because John noticed something that he hadn't before; something no one would ever notice unless they were this close to it-the tiniest little pinhole in the back of the laptop's screen, facing him. An _aperture_…for a second camera, so that a person typing on the laptop could record a person sitting across from them, John realized. A proper spy gadget, no doubt. And it was facing him… so that meant, if it was _on_…

John felt as if a spotlight had just swung onto him, and he was frozen on the stage. Was Irene watching _him_, in addition to watching Sherlock? Irene wasn't interested in John, as far as he knew, it didn't make sense for her to want…to want _to watch John watch? _

That was such a fucked-up thought that at first, John didn't know how to process it. Finally, a translation clicked. He was more than an observer here. _Oh my god. I'm part of this._

A noise from Sherlock brought John's attention back up, just in time to see Sherlock jerk and bend at the waist awkwardly, trying to get his knees under him. John pitied him then. Sherlock had no idea what he was doing. A hundred 'assume the position' jokes ran through the back of John's mind, leftover from the Army, but the thought that made its way to the top and stuck was: _Sherlock, this is wrong_.

And then there it was-Sherlock's first whimper of complaint, first breath that was a little too distressed. "That's it," John decided, setting Irene's laptop on the dresser. "Stop this. Stop now, this has gone on long enough."

"On the contrary, this has barely gotten started," Bond smirked at him. Sherlock looked over at John, blinking distractedly, and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees.

John ignored Bond and focused on his friend. "Sherlock, you may not have gotten this sort of lecture as a teenager, so I'll give it to you now. You should never have sex unless you want to."

"But you _should _want to," Bond added, emphasizing that with a slow roll of his hips.

"Back off," John snapped. "He's never done this before and you know it."

Bond looked at him strangely, halfway between patronizing and curious. "You think he'd like something else better?" Bond asked. "Gentle little kisses, some shy girl wrapping her little fingers around his cock and inviting him home for drinks and a romantic movie?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at that, finally remembering how to speak. "God, no, spare me the tedium."

"So you're not objecting to this?" John demanded.

Sherlock was on the spot now, John's stormy eyes boring into Sherlock's clear ones. "I'm not objecting," Sherlock stated. John threw his hands up in frustration.

"Why? Because of _her?_" he pointed angrily at Irene's face in its glowing window. "You're doing this for her?"

"Not at all," Sherlock clarified. "I am consenting only because to refuse would mean that I cared, and the fact is that I do not."

"What if _I _care?" John protested. "I am telling you, this is wrong. It's not supposed to be this way, and I can't let you go through with it."

Sherlock might've smiled at him, for the briefest instant, before he turned his head away and deliberately leaned backwards, pressing himself snugly against the all-too-solid body behind him. "Do you worst, Mr. Bond, I have not the slightest objection. Though I would be grateful if you'd limit the amount of bodily fluids spilled on the sheets; Mrs. Hudson won't wash them for me until Saturday. Oh yes, and Ms. Adler, if you're feeling merciful, _do _please allow John to leave the room."

John wasn't buying Sherlock's back-in-control act. "I'm not leaving," he warned. "I'm stopping this."

Bond gave a little sigh, and got off the bed, locking eyes with John. "I told you it was your choice," he growled.

John clenched his hands into fists. "Yeah, and now I've made it."

* * *

A/N: fanfiction is a dark and dirty place, you guys, seriously. To say I got off a bit on imagining this chapter would be an understatement, but omg, just wait for the next one. John is both adorable and a BAMF and I love him so much...I really need to be nicer to him in fanfic. Soon. yeah. I will do that. TBC!


	5. Chapter 5: Damn That Adrenaline

Chapter 5: Damn That Adrenaline

Miraculously, John realized from the floor, he wasn't unconscious. And his jaw, where Bond had got him on the first hit, might not even be broken. The epinephrine rush kicked in, and John got up. He had just enough time to glimpse Sherlock on the bed, now with his mouth taped shut and his hands and ankles zip-tied together behind his back—okay, so maybe John _had_ been out cold for a minute or two—before something hit him in the back of the head, knocking him down again. "Stubborn, this doctor of yours," Bond remarked coolly to Sherlock.

John knew he might not look it, but he was a fighter. And he was in full fight mode now. Bond didn't even bother evading as John came back up from that second hit and tackled him, taking him to the floor.

Of course, John knew somewhere in the back of his mind, wrestling on the floor like this wasn't going to end in his favor. He managed to tuck his head at the last second to avoid a blood choke, but wound up with Bond's arm around his neck anyway. _Air choke_, John remembered from some long-ago training. He'd pass out in less than a minute. At least Bond wasn't at a convenient angle to snap his neck, he thought.

Under the circumstances, there was only one thing John could think to do. He groped downwards over Bond's naked body and grabbed him by the balls, squeezing brutally with all his strength.

Bond made a noise like a crazed laugh, and released John's neck. "You've got me," he admitted, though there was no trace of pain in his voice. "You win."

Lungs heaving, John let go and scrambled to his feet. Bond stayed on the floor, one hand cupped protectively over what John had just nearly crushed. In spite of all that, he was still completely hard. And, John realized, damn that adrenaline and all those other angry chemicals, Bond wasn't the only one.

"Well done John, I'm impressed," Irene exclaimed, which earned her an infuriated glare.

"What's the second camera for?" John demanded, still catching his breath. "The laptop has a camera on both sides. What's it for?"

Irene recovered quickly from her surprise. "…In my line of work, I sometimes find it useful to have eyes in the back of my head."

"And were you keeping those eyes on _me_, just now?"

Irene balked. She was caught out, and she knew it. "This is about Sherlock," she said, sighing. "I wanted to see him… like he is now… so exposed, so gorgeously helpless." Her eyes drifted back longingly to Sherlock, hog-tied on the bed, and John looked back too, suddenly remembering that he hadn't yet confirmed if Sherlock was all right.

_You good?_ John asked with his face.

Sherlock met his gaze with an infuriated expression, and rolled his eyes in a dramatic huff. _Oh I'm wonderful! Sarcasm intended,_ John almost heard in his head.

_Right then_. He turned back around.

"But that isn't enough for me," Irene continued in a melancholic voice. "And neither is plain old _sex_. Sherlock thought he'd ruin it all with his indifference. That's why I needed you, needed to see your reaction."

John's voice was colder and angrier than it had been in a long time. "And now you've seen it. Are we done?"

Irene laughed. "Oh, not remotely! Not if you still want my help finding a certain villain."

"I've an idea," Bond spoke up. "Sort of a compromise. You've been watching me play with Sherlock's body. You've seen how he reacts; it's a disaster. But I wonder how he'd behave if I were to play with something he actually cares about."

Irene gasped happily. "Make _Sherlock_ the captive audience, instead of John?" she exclaimed. "Oh, he'll hate me forever for that!" It was the most enticing idea she'd ever heard of.

She riveted her hungry eyes on John.

"What, _me?_" John asked, curving a hand towards his chest. He turned and looked at Bond, who raised his chin a fraction of an inch and sent the subtlest little _kiss_ back at John, looking so damn smug.

"James. Do it," Irene urged. Her eyes narrowed, cat-like and eager. "And make Sherlock watch every second."

Bond glanced at Sherlock and gave a dismissive little half-shrug. "He'll have a front-row seat," Bond guaranteed.

"_Rrrrgh_!" Sherlock commented through the tape over his mouth, and rolled his eyes again.

John turned inward for a moment, and _thought_. There was something here, some way out. He was right on the edge of it, and damn it all, he could figure this out. _Sherlock doesn't care_, he latched onto. _Sherlock doesn't care_. _So neither should I_. Irene's voice from earlier flashed in head. _Sex, John. That's your answer_. And then there was something Bond had said, just a few moments earlier—_You win_.

John's eyes darkened, and he looked Bond over from head to toe and back up, slowly. "Yeah," he said at last, and smiled. "Yeah, okay. That'll be just fine."

* * *

Their faces crashed together, and John brought his hands to the sides of Bond's head. The man tasted like alcohol and had a perfectly nice mouth for kissing, and preferences and orientation be damned, James Bond was sex and _sex _was not going to get the better of John Watson.

John ran his thumbs up over the man's ears and into that regulation haircut. _I remember when mine was that short,_ John recalled, appreciating the feel of it under his hands. Immediately going for control of the situation, John pushed Bond onto the bed, both of them working to get John's clothes off.

"You like it when 'the woman' tells you what to do?" John muttered into Bond's ear. Bond smiled, thinking of M rather than Irene.

"I've been known to follow orders," Bond replied, nipping at John's neck now that his shirt was out of the way. "Occasionally."

"Then follow an order now. Let me be in charge." John followed that up with an enthusiastic kiss, which Bond returned.

"I think I outrank you, _Captain_," Bond said when his mouth was free. He sounded amused, which was a good sign. His hands were in John's pants, ensuring that John wouldn't be losing interest any time soon.

"And I think _you_ take orders from Sherlock's baby brother," John reminded him, practicing that roll of his hips that he so rarely got to use.

"Hrrrm," Bond growled in his throat. "Let's not give a damn about rank, then."

"More fun to be unpredictable," John suggested. His pants were off now, and it was getting more difficult to think clearly, so he knew he had to make his move.

"I have a feeling you speak from experience," Bond guessed, hands working over John's bare skin now, starting with his shoulders and _fuck _that felt good; no wonder Sherlock's brain short-circuited earlier.

"Sorry to disappoint, but this is completely new territory," John said, taking advantage of his position to grind himself against the other man's groin. Bond drew his knees up automatically to make it easier for him, and let his head fall back.

"Yet you think you can handle it," Bond asked through half-closed eyes.

"Yes I do," John confirmed. "You could have killed me earlier but you let me win. Let me win again."

"Why should I?"

John leaned in and kissed his throat. "Because you'll enjoy it," he promised, and felt Bond chuckle in reply.

"You scared to take it up the arse?"

"That's the last thing I'm scared of," John said.

"What's the first thing?" Bond asked, all smirk.

John thought quickly. "That Sherlock will actually give these sheets to Mrs. Hudson to wash when we're done on them."

Bond laughed again. "Mrs. Hudson's the older gal I met at your door today."

"Our landlady," John confirmed.

"She's lovely," said Bond, with a conspiratorial twinkle in his eyes. "You know, I've a bit of a thing for old ladies."

"I'm not even surprised," John muttered back. "Tell me, is there anything you _don't_ have a thing for?"

Bond looked backwards, up behind his head at Sherlock, who was still miserably tied up on the other end of the bed, up near the headboard. "Detectives, apparently," Bond said. Sherlock scowled at him, which made Bond grin as he looked back at John. "They bore me."

"How do you feel about ex-Army doctors?"

"I feel they should wear a condom," Bond said frankly. "Because I don't know where they've been."

"I was going to insist anyway," John said, relieved that this was working out so well. "Because I don't know where you _haven't_ been."

"There are probably still a few places out there," Bond mused. He brought his head up and licked at the scar on John's shoulder. "Bullet," he identified. "How'd you catch it?"

"It was meant for the back of my head." John took a breath and risked a glance at Sherlock. He'd been trying to forget that Sherlock was there, but now the pressure of those pale eyes was too much to ignore. This was the first time he'd told the story, really. Beyond saying _I got shot_. John broke eye contact with Sherlock and looked back down at Bond. "But I flinched."

"Mmm," Bond hummed appreciatively. "Good move."

"Can I show you a better one?" John asked, and gave him a free preview.

"Please," Bond said with a slow smile. "Demonstrate."

* * *

"I knew I liked something about you," Bond purred up at John, one rough shuffle of clothes and condom and lube later. He had his legs up over John's shoulders; John was leaning into him, slippery and sweating and wondering when sex had turned into so much exercise. "You know how to get things done," Bond complimented him, arching his back and lifting his hips to be as accommodating as possible.

He winced as John found a satisfactory angle, and then smirked up at him. "You're sure you've never done this before?"

"And never going to do it again," John declared, panting. "Too much work. Girls are easier."

"I agree with you there," Bond said, raising an eyebrow.

"You are a dirty whore," John determined, moving slowly in, and _in_ some more.

"So I've been told," Bond replied smoothly, gazing up at him with placid caribbean eyes.

"This what they train you for in the Secret Service?" John asked, pulling back halfway and sliding in again, quick and neat.

"Among other things." Bond shifted one more time, getting comfortable, and closed his eyes. "Mmhn. _Fuck,_ Watson. Get to work."

"Yes _sir_," John replied, rocking forward as forcefully as he dared. This part was easy; it was automatic. And just tucking himself perfectly over and over into that slick tight heat of another person felt _amazing_.

Bond picked his head up once or twice, chin to his chest, muscles tightening everywhere.

"Good enough?" John asked offhand.

"Perfect," Bond answered, and then twisted his head to look back at Sherlock again. "_Jealous yet?_"

Sherlock delivered his most scathing glare, full of loathing and disdain, but Bond just chuckled and looked away. "I believe your flatmate is offended," he informed John.

"He's just sulking," John explained. "He'll get over it."

Bond breathed, involuntarily picked his head up again, abs contracting, and then forced himself to lay back and relax. "_Mmhn_. Not sure I will," he murmured.

"You trying to _flatter_ me, James?" John asked. "Let me know where that gets you."

Bond tried to guide John's hand down onto his cock. "Hopefully it gets me at least this much."

But John pulled his hand away. "Do it yourself," he huffed, annoyed.

"_Selfish_." It was hard to tell if Bond was praising that attribute, dismissing it, or complaining about it. Either way, he was _pouting_ beautifully—or at least, he was doing whatever passed for pouting with that amused, tight little mouth of his, watching John through half-closed eyes, his entire body daring John to move harder, to hurt him. Even on his back with his legs spread, he was dangerous, threatening to use John up and leave him quivering with each wet little smack of flesh on flesh.

"_More_," Bond whispered at last. "_Come on_." It was a challenge. Or a plea. Under the circumstances, John didn't give a fuck which one.

"Nope," he said simply, driving on at his own pace.

Anger flashed across Bond's face then, a brief visible symptom of the hot-headedness that had frequently promised to end his career. He wasn't accustomed to being denied what he wanted, especially in bed. And if John Watson really thought he was in control of their present situation, he was in for a rude awakening.

Bond would get what he needed, even if he had to take it by force—which in this case meant fighting ruthlessly for more friction, more pressure, more force. He tucked his legs up out of the way and grabbed John by the hips, pulling him forward, slamming him in whether John wanted it or not.

John knew instantly that there was no point in trying to escape; even being on top as he was, Bond's grip on him was so strong John knew he wouldn't be able to pull away enough to get clear of that rock-hard body. With nothing to do except hold on, John's thoughts quickly sped from _oh yes_ to _too rough_, _ow!_ and then right through to _ohgod stop—_and he _came _so suddenly he didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of containing his reaction.

It was more beautifully violent than anything Irene had seen in a long time, probably because it was so _raw_, so unprepared for. In Irene's experience, most people needed asphyxiation or electrostimulation to get their body to _shudder_ like that; and as for that delicious _whimper_ of his, Irene knew she'd be treasuring that sound in her audio-memory forever, specially reserved for any time she needed a little help getting off herself.

Bond grumbled disapprovingly as he wrung the last trembles of climax out of John's body, and then reluctantly let him go. John dropped onto the bed, spent, struggling to find his way back to the real world, while Bond looked over at Irene, awaiting further instructions.

She didn't keep him waiting for long. "James, slap his face," she commanded, her icy voice bringing John around. He propped himself up on his elbow and turned his head to look at her, scandalized. Bond blinked a few times. "He finished too soon," Irene declared with a sigh. "I'm angry at him. Slap him for me."

Bond made an _is-this-really-necessary _face, then looked at John, chillingly resolute. "You _could_ have been a bit more accommodating," Bond remarked, and made sure his palm made a loud _crack_ as it swiped across John's cheek.

"Ah—what!" John cried out, startled more than hurt, but with his eyes tearing up from the sting.

"Compliments of her majesty's secret service," Bond murmured as John glared at him, bright red handprint surfacing on his face.

That little dollop of punishment seemed to soften Irene's attitude, because her voice and demeanor shifted, becoming somewhat consolatory. "That was _exquisite_, John," she complimented. "Once again, I'm impressed."

"You said you were angry," John accused, rubbing his cheek.

"Can't I be both? And I wonder what our dear detective thought of your performance—shall we ask him?" She gave the still bound-and-gagged Sherlock a vicious look, which Sherlock met with a steady gaze. "_Hhm_," Irene pouted. "He seems so…unaffected. Such a pity."

John couldn't bring himself to acknowledge Sherlock's presence. "Look, is this little porn show over, or what?" he demanded. "Because I'd like to go clean up, if that's all right by you."

"Oh, go on," Irene said, shooing him away. "I need a minute with James, anyway."

As soon as John had gathered his clothes and shuffled out of the room, Bond smirked at the laptop. "Did you get what you needed?" he asked.

"No, not yet," said the woman on the screen. "I still want you to bring Sherlock off as nicely as you did John. Why don't you try—"

"Wasn't talking to you," Bond said smoothly, cutting her off, and a new box popped up on the laptop screen, displaying the text:

_YES, got everything. Please untie my brother and take a shower. _

It took her a minute—she couldn't see the new dialogue box from her end, but she saw Bond's eyes flick as if reading a line of text, and all of a sudden she realized what had happened. Her face went white, her eyes aflame. She'd been played. Betrayed. They'd wanted her laptop all along; the one on her end, that she'd been watching on. So they'd hacked the laptop that she'd given to John, and through it, hacked the _video link_ back to Irene's.

"Just tell me one thing," Irene said, swallowing. "Who is he? On your side. Your friend in the car from earlier today; your _hacker_. I'll need a bargaining chip—give me _something_."

"Tell you what," Bond offered. "You put on your best frock and meet me somewhere for dinner. After that, we'll find a nice hotel and I'll let you try your very best to persuade me to '_give you something_'."

Irene's face was a mask of horror and fury, hot with the promise of vengeance as Bond closed the screen, flipped the laptop upside down and extracted the battery from it.

He then scanned the room, requisitioned one of Sherlock's pillowcases for use as a towel, and finally, almost as an afterthought, he cut the zip-ties from Sherlock's wrists and ankles.

Sherlock wasted no time pulling the tape off his mouth. "So _that's_ what happens when a misogynist meets a dominatrix."

"Yes, someone gets fucked," Bond mused, gathering up his suit.

"Usually not _you_, though." Sherlock pursed his lips, as if unsure whether to continue with what he'd been planning to say.

"Wondering why John got the special privilege then? Don't bother. Q needed time, and I figured Watson would cooperate if given the chance. Better him than you; Irene's obsession with you was beginning to be a bit of a turn-off anyway."

"Pardon the idiom, but 'the woman' isn't going to take this lying down," Sherlock warned.

Bond quirked an eyebrow. "Oh, I'm sure she'll _take it _any number of ways," he quipped. "That's what I like about her. And, no, I see what you're thinking. For the record, I _don't _actually hate women."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "A claim which is about as relevant as the fact that John isn't gay."

"Hm," Bond smiled faintly at that, as of course John returned to the room, cheek still red where he'd been slapped, and once again the only one in the room wearing clothes.

John looked back and forth between Sherlock and Bond, noted the weirdly pleased smile on Sherlock's face, and the laptop separated from its battery on the bed.

John sighed. "All right, what did I miss?"

Suit over his arm, Bond moved past John out into the hall, giving him a comradely pat on the shoulder as he left.

* * *

"…Well?" John asked Sherlock, after they were alone for a handful of seconds. Down the hall, there was the sound of the shower turning on.

Sherlock took a breath, and stretched one long arm across his chest, stretching his shoulder. "Congratulations, John, you've just been an unwitting pawn in one of the most scandalous information heists in the history of espionage."

"…I _what_?"

"And, as such, I suppose you've earned the right to a full explanation," Sherlock continued, sounding bored, stretching his other shoulder now.

"I bloody well hope so," John huffed.

Sherlock smiled at him again, and tipped his head side to side, stretching his neck. "Apparently MI6 had a need of something stored on Miss Adler's personal laptop."

"_This _laptop?" John asked, pointing at it.

"No, the one on her end. But, because _this_ one was conveniently connected to _that _one, by way of a live video feed, a certain person was able to hack this device and ride the wireless highway directly into the jackpot."

"…Your brother," John realized, and then his face clouded. "But hold on; this video business was Irene's idea in the first place. How'd your brother even know about it?"

"Simple," Sherlock said. "I suspect Bond wrote him a note, and stuffed it in his shirt when he tossed him out of the flat. Remember?"

John did recall something about Bond man-handling the youngest Holmes; shoving him out the door. A text or a call might have been intercepted, even from the most encrypted phone, and the flat was definitely under surveillance so a conversation might have been overheard—but a hand written note would have been foolproof. John shook his head. "Incredible," he remarked, thoroughly awed.

"You aren't upset? James Bond did just _use _you, you know, to keep Irene distracted while my brother did his work."

John made a _that-may-be-so_ face, and swung his head side to side. "Yeah, well, I've been used plenty of worse ways than _that_. And at least _you_ didn't get raped just now, I don't think. I mean, _did you_?"

"No."

"Good."

They stared at each other for a minute, until Bond reappeared in the doorway, hair wet and half-dressed. "You two finished making out in here?" he asked casually, buttoning up his shirt. John rolled his eyes up and to the left; Sherlock rolled his eyes up and to the right. The corner of Bond's mouth twitched in a little expression of 'ugh'. "Q's got a location for Moriarty, says he's in the city."

"Ah," Sherlock said brightly, clapping his hands together. "Well, in that case, I wish you a successful assassination. Goodbye."

"You're to come along," Bond informed him. "Orders."

"If Sherlock's going, I'm coming too," said John.

Bond looked at him up and down, cocked his head. "Thought you came already."

"Oh, ha ha. If I was about _thirteen_ that'd be hilarious."

"You have a gun," Bond stated rather than asked, blinking as he changed the subject.

"Upstairs, yes," John admitted.

"Bring it. Might be useful."

Bond turned his attention back to Sherlock, and his face twitched in impatience. "I did say, _in the city_," he snapped.

Sherlock sighed and finally swung his legs over the edge of the bed, so he could reach down and find his clothes. "And you expect me to associate proximity with urgency, I presume?"

"No, I expect you to associate _urgency_ with the unchecked havoc of a super-criminal cyber-terrorist," Bond retorted. "Irene's probably already warned him that we're on our way. We'll be lucky to get there before the trail goes cold." He looked down at his phone, then back up. "Q's outside with the car. Let's go."

"Is my _brother _going with us?" Sherlock asked, scrunching up his face in annoyance.

"Yes, it appears we're now a four-man team. Detective, hacker, soldier, spy. Very _John le Carré_."

Sherlock looked confused. "Sounds familiar…where have I heard that?"

"Movie. Based on a spy novel," John informed him, ever his flatmate's resource for the interpretation of media and pop-culture references.

"You boys ready yet?" Bond asked.

Sherlock was just slipping on his shoes. "Lead on," he said, and looked to John, who found that Bond was looking at him too.

John took a breath. "Right. Guess I'll get my gun."

* * *

A/N: to be continued, of course.

Confession time: what the heck is it called when you kiss the air in a person's direction? Not "blowing a kiss", that involves kissing your hand and blowing it, I mean the one where you just make the little kiss-motion with your lips while making eye contact with the intended recipient. I don't know why, but that's one of the most provocative things I can think of. And the mental imagine of James Bond making that aggressive little kiss motion, directed at _John Watson_, is what actually got me onto this whole bondlock kick in the first place.

Sorry this chapter was so long!


End file.
